


Smile

by mythlover20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Love, No Dialogue, No Sex, Possible Character Death, Romance, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythlover20/pseuds/mythlover20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My real first Sherlolly fanfic, still posted on dA and ff.net, and now here too. </p>
<p>Based on a "smile" prompt I received from The-JoeBlack on dA a few months ago when I asked for prompts for *original* fiction. Didn't exactly work out.</p>
<p>Anyway, Sherlock and Molly are my favourite pairing in Sherlock. I absolutely love Molly, she is a brilliant, loyal, caring, sensitive, and compassionate woman, and I really do think they would be good for each other. She will help teach him to be more human, and he will help her develope a bit more self-confidence. That however does not mean I think it would last, if it ever comes about in the show. I think it might last about six months or so before an amicable split, initiated by Molly. I also think that they would eventually become friends again. But don't worry, this is not this fic. They said so.</p>
<p>Sherlock is a little cheesy, and I would have once said OOC, but after S3, well, not so much anymore, apparently. And woohoo! Molly slapping Sherlock is now canon! Oh, I'm so proud of her.</p>
<p>Anyway, though most of you have probably read it, I hope you still like it. </p>
<p>I'm rather proud of this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smile

# Smile

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Three long years of pain, duplicity, and death, and the first thing he saw when he walked back through the doors of 221B Baker Street was her smile. Why she was there he could only guess, and he never guessed, but the whys and wherefores didn't matter. As soon as she heard the door open and turned to face him, that small smile tugging almost unwillingly at the corner of her mouth had been all he knew. Even the broken jaw he received when his best friend knocked him flat barely registered, because she was there, and her smile made it all worthwhile.

He spent the next two years doing everything he could to keep that smile on her face, though for most of it he didn't know why. Why should that simple expression mean so much to him when it was on her face? It didn't affect him when anyone else did it, so why did he feel like he couldn't breathe whenever she turned to him, and her mouth pulled up into that awe-inspiring portrayal of happiness? 

By the time he realised why he was almost too late. The first year passed, and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen was being given to another man – a man who was undeserving of it. It ended badly, of course. He saw to that when he found out about second girlfriend in Essex. She was not pleased when he told her. Her smile turned into a frown framed by gut-wrenching tears, and both he and the other man were banished from her life. 

One month later they met again, dragged together by yet another case the Yard couldn't solve, another victim needing justice, another dead body requiring examination, another grieving family needing a sympathetic soul. Her smile she gave to his companions, but to himself barely a glance. She was as calm, collected, and professional as she had ever been, but she had turned cold, her smile gone from her face as she worked. Efficiently she reported her findings, going over the body as she talked, explaining in minute detail everything she had discovered before leaving him to his own investigation. She backed away as he moved to the body, waiting by her desk until he was finished. He reported his own findings and his companions left, leaving only the two of them in the room. 

His breath hitched as he slowly made his way around the body to her desk. Her arms folded across her body, her head turned to the side so she wouldn't face him. Silently he stood in front of her. What could he say, that would make her look at him again with something other than betrayal in her eyes? What could he do that would let her forgive him? What could he do that would allow him to forgive himself for making that smile disappear? 

Gently he placed a finger beneath her chin, and turned her tear-stained eyes back to him. He opened his mouth, the words catching in his throat as he uttered them, words that he had already once said to her. And she shook her head, disbelief colouring her face as she uttered to him words his heart broke to hear. 

And she pushed him away, glided past him, back to the body, and picked up a needle. He stood there, his back to her, while she stitched the poor victim's torso closed – his own a gaping wound he did not know how to close. She remained unaware of him as she worked on the body, washing it, cleaning herself off, and sliding the victim back into the mortuary refrigerator to wait until the time came when his family would come to pick him up. Only once she was finished did she turn, and see him bent over her desk, his head lowered and shoulders hunched as he fought against the unwanted ache inside his chest.

She rushed over to him, forgetting the pain he had caused her. She placed a gentle hand on his back, over his heart, and bent in close and asked if he was alright. He shook his head, and repeated his words from before, his eyes closed because he did not trust himself to open them. He felt her stiffen beside him, her walls rebuilding rapidly, closing him out again.

Before he knew it he had turned, and his palm tingled where it contacted with the skin of her wrist. A flash, unbidden, of emotions he never used to feel tore through him. Gently, with a barely-felt tug, he drew her closer to him. He felt her stiffen, but couldn't stop himself from wrapping his arms around her, holding her close, against his heart. He buried his face in her hair, whispering his words again into her ear. Sorrow and regret poured from him, his soul lying bare before her. But he never told her all. Her hand slowly reached up and rubbed his back, her voice quietly whispered his name, and his phone rang: loud, obnoxious, and unwelcome. Reluctantly he set her back, every fibre of his being telling him to pull her back into his arms as he retrieved his phone and read the message. 

A sigh left his lips as he glanced between the phone and the woman before him. Her lips were still set in that hated frown, and sadness still tinged her eyes that horrible shade of brown. His heart dropped to the floor, but still he stared into those eyes as he announced his need to leave. This time he moved away from her, retying his scarf around his neck, and turning towards the door. Her voice, soft, barely audible, stopped him. Slowly, cautiously, he turned, and looked into her face. 

And there it was. Small, barely noticeable, and still tinged with sadness, but it was there. Her lips tucked up in to her small smile once more as she thanked him for his apology. His lips responded by themselves, smiling gently at her in turn. He nodded his head, turned, and walked out the door with his head and heart lighter than they had been when he walked in. 

They met again two days later when they unexpectedly bumped into each other outside a cafe, spilling their drinks all over one another. Apologies flew rapidly from their mouths as they each wiped themselves off. Suddenly their eyes met. Silence reigned, but was broken a second later by her soft laughter. Without knowing why he soon joined her, their chuckles filling the air around them. And there was it again: soft, still tinged with sadness, but she was smiling, at him. Before either of them knew it he had her elbow in his hand and was guiding her back inside the café, and ordering her another coffee. White, no sugar.

One month later his coat flew behind him as he entered the morgue in his usual dramatic fashion. He made his way directly to the desk where she was working, his friend trailing behind him. She looked up when she heard them come towards her, and smiled at them as his friend greeted her. But he didn’t return it. One look into her eyes and he knew that she was not as she appeared. Immediately he patted his pockets, searching for his phone. Not finding it he turned and asked his friend to look for it, saying they needed to leave quickly but that he still needed to collect samples before going. Grumbling, his friend reluctantly left, returning to the upstairs lab they had just left. 

Grabbing the woman by the arm he pulled her from her chair and moved back towards the refrigerators at the back of the room which held the donated organs. Immediately she opened the door, and rattled off the various organs she had available for him to choose from. Gently he placed his hand on her back, and turned her to face him. The mirror image of a month ago, he bent down to her eye level and asked her what was wrong. She smiled again, once again sad, and told him, and he mentally chastised himself for deleting what this day was to her from his mind. He opened his mouth, the words just about to come out, and once again his phone rings, and the moment is ruined. Groaning silently he dug the phone out of his pocket and answered, barely controlling his desire to snap at the Inspector on the other end of the line. What the Inspector tells him is something he’s been waiting to hear – his current case will soon be solved. Eventually the call was disconnected, and he smiled softly, if apologetically, at the woman before him. He told her quietly that he didn’t need anything. With that he turned around and strode back past his returning friend, whom immediately confronted him when he saw the phone in his hand. Ignoring him, he told his friend they had work to do, and they both left the morgue. The woman stood before the refrigerator, forgetting to close the door, wondering just what was going on with the man she thought she knew.

The next day he walked into the lab where she was working, alone. Smiling, he stepped up beside her, coughing to get her attention. Immediately she looked up at him, eyebrows raised, inquisitive, and he could tell she was wondering why he had one hand hiding under the edge of his coat. Silently he brought it out, and handed her the tiny cargo he kept sheltered from the wind and rain he walked through to get to Bart’s from where his cab had dropped him off. Once again, there it was. For the first time in months her smile lit up the cold, sterile environment around her, bringing life to the jars of chemicals and disinfected tools around her. His heart thumped painfully in his chest, and his lips pulled back into their own beaming smile. Her wide brown eyes shot up to him as she clutched the small, peach-coloured rose to her chest, and he couldn’t resist. He leaned down, his face moving slowly towards hers, and he gently placed a delicate kiss to the corner of her smiling mouth. Before he rose he whispered in her ear, wishing her a belated happy birthday.

One month after that he finally did it. After one month of driving his best friend and his landlady mad with his constant muttering, his stone-cold silences, and his mournful, furious, and confusing music, he finally, at long bloody last, did it. His heart pounded in his chest he dressed in his best suit, with the purple shirt he knew she liked the best. Checking his reflection in his bedroom mirror he nervously ran his fingers through his curls one last time and finally deemed himself ready. He strode, quickly, purposefully, out of his bedroom, through the living area, past his slightly concerned friend, out the apartment door, down the stairs, and out the front door to the street below. Standing outside in the late summer sun he took a deep breath, and willed his mind to stop racing, and concentrate on the task at hand. Almost immediately a cab drove down the road. Barely thinking about it he raised his hand and waved it down. He hopped in, gave the cabbie the address, and sat back, his eyes closed and fingers tented in front of his face, until they arrived at his destination. 

Quickly he strode through the front doors of Bart’s, and made his way directly to the elevator, ignoring everyone in his path. He wasn’t so lucky as to remain undisturbed when the elevator arrived and the inspector appeared. One look between the two and the inspector, who had been stepping out, quickly got back in again, and rode down to the morgue with him. Both men stared at the elevator doors, silent. The inspector took him in, watching him from the corner of his eye. He could tell that the inspector, as close to a friend as anyone could be, knew exactly what he was about to do, and he was not happy about it. Though why the detective would be unhappy he did not know. He could read anyone and everyone instantly and there was no reason for his companion to be disagreeable. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It did little to ease his still rapidly-beating heart, or stop him from impatiently tapping his foot. The inspector beside him rolled his eyes. 

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the elevator doors opened, and he all but fell out of the compartment. Straightening his shoulders, he smoothed his suit jacket, and stepped forwards to open the mortuary doors. A hand grabbed his wrist, stopping him from taking another step. Irritated he turned, and stared into the eyes of the man behind him. Keeping one hand on the elevator doors to keep them open, the older man leaned forward, whispering in his ear. He frowned, but allowed the inspector his warning. Even a year or so earlier he would have turned about, snapped at the older man in his usual hostile manner, and strode off, enacting his plan without tact or grace. But now his brow creased, his eyes shadowed, and his heart clenched painfully. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he knew the inspector was right with his warnings. So instead he glanced into the other man’s eyes and nodded, and waited for the inspector to release him, and for the elevator doors to close between him. He was worried that he would hurt her, too. 

Still he took a deep breath, and turned back to the doors. Through the small window he could see her at her desk, gathering her belongings and preparing to leave for the night. His heart rate elevated, and he almost had to force himself to open the door, but open it he did. 

Surprised at the swish of the door she turned, her brows drawing into a frown as she accidentally knocked over a stack of files left for her replacement. The string of quiet profanities that left her mouth stunned him; he had never heard such a thing from her before. By the time he realised that he should have been helping her the files were placed back in their rightful position on the desk, the stray sheets of paper that had floated throughout the room returned to the proper files. Clearing his throat, he walked cautiously towards her. She turned back to him, brushing stray hair back behind her ear. She had barely asked him why he was there before he took her hand, picked up her bag, and “asked” her to dinner.

Her smile was confused at first, as he escorted her home to allow her to change her clothes. It became disbelieving, even self-deprecating, as he led her to a cab and took her to his favourite Italian restaurant. It grew open and warm as they conversed over ravioli, wine, and panna cotta. It brightened with joy as she laughed with him over coffee. By the end of the night, after they were finally kicked out so the restaurant could close for the night, her smile had settled into a small, simple, understated expression of pure happiness. As they walked through the streets towards the main road and the cab rank his smile joined hers in brightening the moonless night. 

Soon they parted, him waving down a passing cab, and her stopping him from joining her, insisting on going home alone because he lived in the opposite direction. His protests fell on deaf ears, and were soon silenced by the trill of her soft laugh. She grinned up at him, her face full of light and life, as she chastised him for being so uncharacteristically chivalrous and gallant. In the end she left, with him standing on the footpath. A lopsided grin had centred itself on his face and did not leave, even when he later fell asleep. For as she sat in the cab she had taken his hand and thanked him for the night. She then pulled him closer, and placed a soft kiss to his cheek, before closing the door and driving off. 

His smile didn’t leave until the next morning, when he woke to find his elder brother sitting in his chair, sipping tea with his roommate. Their family discussion didn’t last long – they never did if a case was not involved – and as usual it was fraught with tension. His brother left without finishing his tea, effectively banished when he picked up his violin and played a soft, stirring melody while staring out the window. With one final taunt his brother soon disappeared. He ignored him, and immediately returned his violin to its case, and returned to his bedroom. He picked up his phone, and placed a call. Two hours later she arrived at work, a bouquet of purple lupins sitting on her desk. He never saw that smile, but his own when he thought of her reaction made his friend think him mad.

Both the woman herself and her smile grew more and more precious to him with every dinner date, impromptu lunch, and cup of bad coffee drunk in the hospital’s cafeteria. And with each outing together her smile changed. With ease he could recall each and every smile she gave him as they worked or dined, but his favourites he kept safely locked away in his mind palace, never to be deleted or misplaced. The beaming grin she gave him when he saw her two days after their first date, and his first bouquet, had lightened his blackened mood. The wonder in her slightly parted lips as she leaned forward in their balcony seat at a violin concerto on their fourth date renewed the joy he felt listening to a well-performed piece. The self-conscious smirk she tried to hide from him the first time they danced had made him chuckle, and hold her tighter in his arms. But the one he treasured more than all others was the one she gave him after he gave her his first kiss. Small and soft, and accompanying eyes so full of the emotion he once despised, it had wormed his way inside his chest and caressed his heart with gentle fingers. It was that smile that, one month after their first date, had led them both to her bedroom where he made love to her for the first time. It was that smile that greeted him when she woke, their naked limbs tangled together in the sheets. It was that smile that made the long, dull days between cases almost, but not quite, bearable. 

It was that smile that was beaming up at him that awful day, when she was almost taken away from him. One year to the day after their first date, almost to the minute, and they were walking down Northumberland Street back towards his apartment. She was laughing, clutching his hand in hers, her head resting against his arm. He was smiling down at her, his own deep chuckle mingling with hers while the sounds of London’s vibrant nightlife swirled around them. It was a short, five-minute stroll, one they had taken many times before. It was one that had always been safe, should always be safe. 

He was wrong; he was careless.

They had barely left the restaurant before he felt someone jostling them from behind. A quick glance behind them revealed nothing to him; only a sea of oblivious, vacant faces staring unseeingly, unknowingly ahead. It took him only a second to realise that whoever had bumped into them had moved on, but that one distracted second was all that was needed. She was torn from his side and dragged into the arms of a madman. She screamed, and he froze. For a second he could do nothing but watch, his heart rate slowing to a crawl as she was pulled backwards, the gunman’s arm around her throat and his 9mm handgun held to her temple. The gunman screamed at him, crying that he had ruined the man’s life, that his wife had left him, and taken his children, that he had been excommunicated and lost his job and it was all because of him, and that he didn’t even care enough about the lives he was ruining to remember. But he did remember; he knew exactly who that mad man was and what he had done but all he could do now was hold his hands up and try to placate the man. All he could think about was what would happen if that gun was fired. So he tried to talk the man down, refusing to even look into her eyes because if he did he would falter, and the gunman would fire, and… and…

And in the end it didn’t matter what he did. She struggled, fighting the madman with everything her small frame possessed. Her captor yelled and cried and pressed the barrel harder against her skull. He pleaded and cajoled and tried desperately to think despite the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears and his detested emotions clouding his mind. People around them screamed and scattered like startled cattle. Police sirens sounded in the distance, growing closer and closer with each passing second, making the gunman more and more nervous. And serendipity had a macabre sense of humour.

One police car arrived on the scene, sliding around the nearby corner, it’s brakes slamming on and the vehicle stopping a short distance from them. Two officers, one he wouldn’t have expected to see could he think clearly, jumped out of the car and fluidly drew their own weapons on the madman holding his woman hostage.

Their arrival distracted the gunman from his task, his head turning rapidly between the two officers and the woman in his arms. She took advantage of it. She fought him with her entire being, pulling and clawing at his arm, shaking her head back and forth to throw off his aim. She tried desperately, futilely, to elbow him. In the end she slammed her head back, broke her captor’s prominent proboscis, and then promptly bit the arm holding her. 

A noise, a horrifying reflex he had futilely done everything to avoid, and she is released. The gunman stumbled back, holding his hands to his bleeding nose, and was shot three seconds later. He rushed forward towards her, his coat billowing behind him. More police arrived on the scene, sirens blaring, weapons drawn on the disabled maniac, finally leading him away in handcuffs. All the while he sat and cradled her in his arms, his heart feeling as if it was torn in half as she lay, eyes closed and bleeding, with half her forehead lying in pieces on the asphalt.

For five long, arduous days he stared at her heart-rate monitor, watched the rise and fall of her chest, and clasped her small, delicate fingers in his hand as he sat by her bedside in Bart’s. Others had come and gone: colleagues, friends, one ex-lover he had promptly banished. Her mother stayed during the day until her new husband ushered her off home to sleep; his best friend had tried to do the same to him, only giving up when his fiancée dragged him away, thus saving the man from his friend’s ire. The inspector had come by, offering his sympathies and support. Even the annoying sergeant who had been first on the scene visited, relaying promises to keep the media at bay for as long as they could before squeezing his shoulder in misplaced and unexpected sympathy. But only he stayed, day and night, watching over her. Even his mind palace lay abandoned in the wake of her coma.

It was after midnight when he eventually saw something he feared he would never see again. His chin was resting atop their joined hands, his eyes closed, his brain having finally told his body it was time to rest. Yet still he fought against it: she might need him. It was a sentiment that he had once not been used to: he reviled sentiment, actively shut himself from it all – though many would argue his distaste for human emotion was a sentiment in and of itself. Yet, since her… and she had nearly… his sentiment had almost…

That was when he felt it: a small twitch of her fingers. He gasped. His eyes flew open, and his heart fluttered, seized, and then raced, all in the space of a second. He stared, hard, at the woman before him, willing her to show him any sign that she was still there. And she gave it to him. Her fingers twitched again, then her hand. He smiled, grinned, laughed. Soon her eyelids started twitching, and she moaned. Instantly he rose from his seat, pressing the call button for the nurse. By the time the nurse arrived she was moving. By the time a doctor followed her eyes were open, staring blankly up at him, and he was forced from the room. 

A few texts and one phone call, and soon the waiting room was filled with those close to her, all anxiously awaiting the doctor’s news. They sat in the hard plastic chairs, huddled together, feeding off each other’s nervous energy. He stood apart, his gaze focused solely on the hall he had kept walking down until he was told in no uncertain terms that he would be thrown out if he kept disturbing the other patients with his constant pacing. Eventually he had settled against this wall, and both his friend and the inspector joined him. None of them said anything; they just kept watching the hall, and the door to her room.

An hour after she had woken the doctor deigned to address them, and his best friend had to hold him upright. Just one lousy quarter inch, the doctor said, and she would have been a lobotomised vegetable. One half inch and she could have been killed. Despite the skull fragments that had initially lodged in her frontal lobe she was lucky. She was very lucky.

Her mother cried in relief, her stepfather laughed; all of their friends sighed, and chuckled alongside him, happy in thinking that the worse was behind her. He? He was led to a chair he promptly fell into, and rested his head in his hands. He knew it was not true: the worst was not behind her, would never be behind her. While she was in a relationship with him she would always be at risk and he… 

With that unpleasant train of thought he rose from his chair and on unsteady legs made his way back down the hall towards her room. The rest could stay in the waiting room if they wanted, deluding themselves into a state of irrational euphoria. Until she woke he was not leaving her.

The gentle touch of a hand upon his shoulder grounded him halfway to her side. He could see her through the small window in her door. Her chest rose and fell slowly under the stark white sheets, her cut and shaven hair poked out from under the bandages, her eyelashes rested softly upon her cheeks. She was asleep, likely highly medicated, in a hospital where she was well known, surrounded by doctors, nurses, security and other patients of various levels of mobility, and it wasn’t enough! She was completely vulnerable, and someone was trying to stop him from protecting her? He spun sharply, ignoring the way he stumbled, and fixed his harshest gaze upon his best friend. The other man placed both hands on his shoulders, and told him to leave, to go home and to get some sleep. He tried to argue, but his friend quietly persisted. In the end he submitted, after his friend agreed not to leave her side until he returned. He bowed his head, and allowed her mother and step father to lead him downstairs and into a cab. His friend was right, he needed to sleep. He could barely walk; he was no good to her like this. He didn’t realise until he walked into his flat, and looked in his bathroom mirror, that he was still wearing the same blood stained clothes he had been that night five days earlier. 

The sun shining brightly through his window woke him from his thankfully dreamless slumber. Slowly his eyes blinked open, his body forcing him into unwelcome consciousness. The empty space beside him that greeted his vision weighed down his grief-laden limbs, making his heart clench painfully inside his chest with the unconscious knowing of why she wasn’t there.

Labouriously he flipped himself onto his back, gravity pressing him into the bed with the force of a thousand tonnes of decaying stone, and stared unseeing at the dull-painted ceiling. His chest rose and fell with each fleeting intake of oxygen. It was the only movement he made as the long, eternal minutes passed in oblivion.

A sharp knock on his bedroom door forced his mind to finally stir, and his newly-awakened thoughts filled him with dread. Anxiously he stumbled out of bed, tripping over his own feet as he rushed to the door. He threw it open and stared wide-eyed at his landlady. The old woman’s tired eyes pierced his once cold and unfeeling heart – a heart now stilled inside a chest frozen in fear of what the next breath would bring. 

Her quiet words saw him throw his arms around the old woman, hugging her tightly, and almost running out the door until she stopped him and reprimand him for trying to leave without dressing first – for what would she say if he did? He couldn’t help himself. The image of the small women admonishing him for such a thing caused his lips to tug themselves up into a smirk: the first smile he had made in days, and his heart, though still weary, felt a little bit lighter for it. Gently he kissed the old woman’s cheek, her smile loving and compassionate as her boy listened to his surrogate mother. He dressed as she left, throwing on the first clean suit he laid his hands on, before racing out the door and back to her side.

His best friend met him outside her door, placing a hand on his shoulder to stop him from rushing to her side. He blinked and stared at his friend, frowning, his slightly elated mood drowning as his heart felt like it was being squeezed in worry’s barbed talons. He opened his mouth to ask, to beg if that was what it took. His best friend shook his head, then nodded towards the door, giving him an answer and not giving him one at the same time. The man placing a hand and tried to lead him back to the horrid waiting room. He shook the man off, and leaned firmly, decisively, stubbornly against the putrid olive-green walls. His friend sighed, and leant beside him. And together they waited, as his woman’s fate was decided behind the maple-coloured door.

The doctor soon left the room, quietly shutting the door behind him as the nurses continued their work. He was behind the doctor before the man could even turn around, and he secretly enjoyed making the horrid man jump when he turned and saw him standing there. The doctor immediately frowned and admonished him. He opened his mouth to reprimand him – honestly it was almost as if the doctor hadn’t met him before, if he thought he could get away with it – but the doctor saved himself with one short sentence. He pushed past the frustrated medical officer who kept blubbering behind him like a fish out of water, but the rest of his words never reached his ears – the man wasn’t important anymore. His hand reached out and pushed the door open and he bustled into the room, his heart racing, and eyes wide and frantic as he searched out the one thing that counted.

And he saw it. She was sitting up in bed, looking down at her arm as nurse took her blood pressure. Fresh bandages adorned her head like a crown, her long brown hair shining in the fluorescent light where what remained of it lay curled over her shoulder. Half of the tubes and wires had been removed, leaving red welts on her skin where the tape had been pulled off by less-than-gentle hands. He stopped just inside the door, his heart speeding erratically, chest heaving under his white shirt, his eyes glued to her. Then she looked up, and there it was. His feet moved of their own accord to the opposite side of her bed and his body sat itself beside her, but he didn’t care that his body acted without his say so. He was where he wanted to be: by her side, her hand in his, tears welling in his eyes and lips curling upwards in response to her own happy, tired smile. 

Five months later she stood bent over, panting, a wide beaming grin on her face. She had spent a total of two weeks in hospital, her smile growing brighter and stronger each day, bringing him back from the darkness that had threatened to consume him. He was the first person she walked to the day she was allowed out of that bed, her arms wrapping around his waist as she cried into his chest. His was the house she came home to when she was dismissed. His was the face she slapped and screamed at when he broke both his own heart and hers when he suggested that she should leave him. He put her in danger, she nearly died because of him, and though he died at the thought of being without her she was better off without him. And he was ever grateful that she soundly put him in his place for acting like such an idiot. Everyone already knew of their connection, she said, and she was right. He had grinned at her resulting suggestion then. Now he lay on his back, panting for each breath, his eyes blurred and his head ringing while his woman smiled at him from afar, laughing because, for the first time since they started her martial training, she had just managed to knock him flat. 

He moaned and groaned and mumbled on the floor, feigning injuries greater than his pride, but she saw right through him, as she always had. His every word brought fits of cackling laughter, heightened the sparkle in her eyes, revealed her pearly white teeth between her plush pink lips. He was proud of her, no matter how he acted. She took to their training like a fish to water and he couldn’t have been more pleased or proud of her rapid progress, and relieved to know that she could at least defend herself if need be. No matter how much his heart clenched with her smile, his pride felt that the laughter was a bit much. He pouted and sat up, mumbling about how she could at least be dignified in victory. And his woman mocked him, pouting and crooning in a laughing falsetto. All he did was roll is eyes and hold his hand out – if she was going to knock him over she could help him up, even if he was a foot taller than her. 

He grinned as she took her hand, her small palm warm in his, her fingers soft and tender against his skin, lifting his heart as it always did. She was happy, calm and relaxed, fully used to his eccentric behaviour and smiling at his antics. So he got his revenge, and pulled her off her feet, and rolled her beneath him, trapping her under him.

He said those words, her three favourite words as she laughed up at him and wrapped her small arms around him. Her smile filled him, flowed through his veins like warm honey. It swirled through him, circled around his heart. And more words came out. Four words. Four small words that wiped the smile from her face. She stared up at him, shocked, her arms falling from his back as she stared up at him. His heart raced. He had't meant to say the words, but now that they were out he was anxious for her answer. She didn't make him wait long, and his chest felt it would burst at her response. He wrapped her in his arms and held her to him, laughing and rolling over the floor with her.

So it came to pass that his woman became a permanent fixture in his life. He fell asleep and woke beside her, her smile calming his mind and lightening his heart every moment of every day. Eventually four more words were spoken to her, one quiet night while reading on the couch. Four words she never expected to hear from him. Four words which sparked the longest discussion they had ever had. Four words that by the next morning sparked the most radiant smile he had ever seen, one that gleamed long and bright, and filled his heart with joy. Panic as well, but mostly joy. 

It was a smile they shared the next few months; a smile that never left their lips. It was the smile that greeted him as she walked towards him, resplendent in ivory. It was the smile that beamed up at him has they made their promises, and ran hand in hand through their honour-guard of friends and family. It was the smile that stayed on their lips, in one form or another, throughout their long years. 

It was the smile that granted his mind peace, his heart happiness, and his life meaning. 

Because it was hers, and he loved her.


End file.
